


Gray Skies and an Ambience of the Modern Day.

by 12oclockAM



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alexithymia, Blood and Injury, Body Horror, Dark, Depression, Drugs, Original Universe, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Horror, Psychological Trauma, Realistic, References to Depression, References to Drugs, Swearing, Weirdness, cryptid, slightly poetic, world-building
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 21:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30044862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/12oclockAM/pseuds/12oclockAM
Summary: He stood, with no umbrella in hand. He stood, with no earbuds to muffle the mind-numbing sounds of the highway. He stood, taking in the smog-filled air, taking in the sounds of cars, of the rain hitting the ground, of the horrors in the forest behind him creeping closer and closer, though somehow going further away at the same time.He payed no mind to any of this. He payed no mind to the cold that would surely get him sick, he payed no mind to the fact that the only hoodie that brought him comfort anymore was drenched, he payed no mind to the fact that the opening into the wilderness behind him could be the death of him, he payed no mind that it took one person under the influence to run him over and end his life.He didn't care. He didn't value his life. He didn't value anything. He was simply null to the world, and everything that may inhabit it in its spheres.The monsters like this about him, like that he seems so easy to persuade, like that he seems just tall enough to stand out, yet no one bats an eye to him, and surely wouldn't to his absence. The monsters thrived on his emotionless state that he's dragged himself into, tired of the crying and whining the others of his species do seemingly endlessly.





	Gray Skies and an Ambience of the Modern Day.

When he first started acting different, his parents were quick to research what was wrong. Why was their little boy never smiling anymore? Why did their little boy not spare a glance at his beloved grandma's death? Why did their little boy seem to care less about the fact that they've gotten him the puppy he's been asking for for years? The internet brought up the idea of alexithymia, but no, surely not. Their child isn't _emotionless_ , he's laughed before. He's smiled before. He's done things that other children do all of the time.

Of course he's fine, they say.

He's just grieving, they say.

It's just a phase, they say.

He'll be fine, they say.

He's okay, they say.

None of this was true.

Due to their negligence, their child only spiraled downwards into his emotionless state.

He's not fine, the doctors said.

It's not grief, he insisted.

You need help, his friends said.

He's getting worse, his relatives warned.

Help your son, the teachers begged.

The parents didn't listen.

And after a few years, the son dropped out of high school. He didn't care that this would most likely lead his life downwards. He didn't care that his parents would most likely be disappointed at his choice. He didn't care that'd he probably would never see his friends anymore, nor would he see his kind English teacher, that seemed to love him more than his own parents. He didn't care about these things. He didn't care about anything.

Soon after this, his father dies of lung cancer. One too many Marlboro's and Newport's seeming to be too much for him. The son wouldn't be surprised if the air of his city also played a part in his father's death.

His mother was heartbroken, her lips starting to scar from her teeth, her nails becoming broken and uneven from stress. Bags had formed under her eyes in grief, the sudden death of her husband obviously taking a toll on her. His father was a wonderful man, in other's words. He attended as many charity events as he could, he worked for the military for a couple of years, he donated food to homeless shelters.

The only person he couldn't help before he died just had to be his own son.

When attending the funeral, more people were there than the boy had expected. Then again, his father was apparently a 'hero'. People had asked how he felt, what was his emotions when he learned of his father's death. He answered simply and truthfully; he didn't know. There were varying reactions to his answer. Some were filled with sympathy, assuming he was in grief, as his parents were long before. Some were filled with anger. Why wasn't this child sad, or grieving about the death of his own father? Some were filled with a blank, knowledgeable glare. As if they understand that he truly, genuinely doesn't know. That he never _has_ known.

His mother was one with anger, she yelled at him as they got home. Yelled at him as if his fathers death was his fault, as if everything wrong in her life was his fault. The only thing she touched on, though, was his lack of emotions.

"Why can't you even feel a single thing at the death of your _father?!_ The man who _raised_ you!" She had wailed, as if he didn't know who she was talking about.

"Why can't you be a _normal_ child? We tried _so hard_ to treat you like one, and yet you end up like some emotionless husk! What's _wrong_ with you?!" She had cried, wishing she could have at least some solace in her quickly shattering family.

And he answered her, simply and truthfully; he didn't know.

So here he stood. He stood, with no umbrella in hand. He stood, with no earbuds to muffle the mind-numbing sounds of the highway. He stood, taking in the smog-filled air, taking in the sounds of cars, of the rain hitting the ground, of the horrors in the forest behind him creeping closer and closer, though somehow going further away at the same time.

He payed no mind to any of this. He payed no mind to the cold that would surely get him sick, he payed no mind to the fact that the only hoodie that brought him comfort anymore was drenched, he payed no mind to the fact that the opening into the wilderness behind him could be the death of him, he payed no mind that it took one person under the influence to run him over and end his life.

He didn't care. He didn't value his life. He didn't value anything. He was simply null to the world, and everything that may inhabit it in its spheres.  
The monsters like this about him, like that he seems so easy to persuade, like that he seems just tall enough to stand out, yet no one bats an eye to him, and surely wouldn't to his absence. The monsters thrived on his emotionless state that he's dragged himself into, tired of the crying and whining the others of his species do seemingly endlessly.

He doesn't look behind him at the cryptids, at the beings unknown to the rest of the world, at the creatures that no one but themselves know the intentions of. What he does do though is listen.

He listens to the sounds of children, playing, screaming, laughing in the park across the street. He listens to the parents rounding them back into their cars due to the rain. He listens to the bus coming to a stop in front of him and the bench he sits on, though he doesn't get on. Other's look at him as they pull out their umbrella's, pull up their hoods. He doesn't care about the glances, be they judging or concerned. He sees the car filled with family driving away from the park, and he doesn't feel envy. He doesn't feel jealousy. He simply thinks 'That's what a normal family is like'.

Though there really is no such thing as normal anymore, is there? Opinions and groups have been made, classes, trios, pairs, they all have their own types of normal, which is weird to other people, and their normals. He's decided a long while ago that 'normal' is just basic human functions, such as how their brain works, and how they move or function.

This puts him out of the 'normal' pool.

He doesn't care.

He never cares.

A man sits on the opposite side of the bench at the bus stop, seemingly relieved to have shelter from the rain. He pays no mind to the man, nor does the man pay mind to him. The boy knows he should probably get on the next bus so he can go home, but he doubts his mother is particularly worried about his absence. Besides, sitting under the bus stop, listening to the rain patter atop the metal hovering over him, it makes him feel _something_. Someone, he couldn't care to remember who, told him he was feeling _relaxed_. He's not sure if that's an emotion or not, but he'll take it.

A nudge at his shoulder makes him glance at the man, who smiles sheepishly. "Hi, uhm, when was the last bus here?" The man asks, with a tone that the boy recognizes as _shy_. He faces forwards again, blinking owlishly. "A few minutes ago." He doesn't know why he answered the man, but his mother called answering a question 'common human decency'. She spat this out with venom, which he's growing used to. He hears the man swear, but he pays no mind. He simply continues looking out into the park across the street, and continues to simply blink out the raindrops that make it under the shelter and into his eyes.

Hours later, the man having left, a car pulls up a couple yards away from the bus stop. He recognizes it to be a police car, but he doesn't feel curiosity as to why it's there.

He doesn't feel concerned, or confused, as to why a cop asked him to get in the car.

He doesn't feel concerned, or confused, as to why the two cops up front are talking to him in voices filled with sympathy.

He doesn't feel concerned, or confused, as to how the two cops found him.

He doesn't feel concerned, or confused, as to why he gets home to find his mother dead in the bath tub, water stained red with blood and multiple stab wounds on her body.

He doesn't feel concerned, or confused, as to why almost everything valuable in the house has been taken.

He guesses he's been robbed. And he guesses his mother was murdered.

The cops, and whatever investigators are left seem to be waiting for something out of him, as the medics take the body away. They seem to be waiting for some type of reaction out of him. He simply blinks at them, looking back up the stairs as to where his bedroom is. One cop coughs, in a way he assumes is awkward. "You're... going to be put in foster care, son." They had told him.

He hums, uninterested, uncaring. "I'm turning eighteen in two months, so I won't be there for long." He informs them, waiting for them to leave so that he can go into his room and watch the raindrops go down his window.

The cop who had told him about foster care seems to wince, his mouth straining. "You have to come with us." Oh. "Okay." Is all he says, as they bring him back to the cop car. He's got a vague idea of what the foster care system is like, his mother having used foster care as a threat before, though it fell flat when she realized he isn't scared of it. Not because he's brave, but because he doesn't care.

He doesn't care, he's not brave, he feels no remorse, he's not scared, he's not mad, he's not confused, he not concerned. He's numb. This is all he's known, and all he will know.


End file.
